Patrick's Realization
by Ashtreerose
Summary: A one-off Mentalist story. Lisbon has a horrible flu, and nothing is making her feel better. Until Patrick Jane shows up.


**Just a little one-off FanFic I wrote at midnight because I was bored. I know, I know: I should have been working on the next chapter of my other Mentalist story. But this idea just flew into my brain and niggled at me until I wrote it. My imagination does that sometimes, it has a mind of it's own. :) Sorry for the lame title. I couldn't think of anything. Grr.**

**Enjoy + Review = My Happiness**

**Ashlee-Rose :)**

**Disclaimer: Do I even have to say it? Okay: The Mentalist is not my creation, but this story is. :)**

**P.s. I'm sorry I over-use smiley faces (kinda like a certain serial killer I know...haha). Writing makes me so happy, I just can't help it. Sorry! :) **

**Patrick's realization**

Teresa Lisbon was dying. Her head was pounding so hard, she wondered if her forehead was actually throbbing visibly. Her nose was streaming uncontrollably, and every time she spoke, it came out as a creak, and set her throat on fire. Not to mention the sudden waves of nausea followed by throwing up everything eaten in the past 24 hours.

Okay, so maybe she wasn't _literally_ dying, but this damn flu sure felt like it.

It was six o' clock on a Friday evening, and she was lying on her couch miserably. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew she was hungry, but she wasn't feeling like leaving the cocoon of blankets she had nestled into. She had just missed her second day of work in seven years. And needless to say, she was in a bad mood. Who knew what kind of danger her consultant Patrick Jane had put her team in without her there? She almost snorted at the thought. Consultant? More like constant pain in her ass- _Uh-oh. _

Teresa sat up just in time to grab a tissue to contain the huge sneeze that shook her entire body and made her throat burn even more.

"Ughh..." She groaned, flopping back on the pillows. This flu was way more trouble than it was worth. It was sucking all her energy away. There was nothing Teresa hated more than being sick. (Well, except maybe criminals and sometimes, Jane.) She made sure to take vitamins every day to avoid exactly this, but there were obviously loopholes for bugs to sneak into her system. She frowned crossly, not impressed with her own immune system.

She had just turned on the tv to channel surf when her cellphone began to trill loudly from the armrest of her couch. Supressing a sigh, she answered it.

"Lisbon." She winced at the stuffy, scratchy sound of her voice. But the voice on the other end made her feel even sicker.

"Lisbon! You missed work again, you must be really sick. You sound terrible." Patrick Jane's voice sounded annoyingly perky, and Teresa gritted her teeth.

"Jane, what do you want? I'm not in the mood for games." She went back to channel surfing, phone wedged between her ear and her shoulder.

"Are you hungry?" He asked, ignoring her question. Teresa frowned, resisting the urge to ask how he knew that. She did some quick thinking: If he was asking her this, he was obviously offering food. And she was too sick to move, to hungry to resist, and too tired to care.

"Actually... I am a little peckish. Why?" Teresa asked hopefully. Jane chuckled down the phone.

"I thought you might be." Another chuckle. Then the line went dead. _What the hell? _Teresa almost growled. If this was another one of his hare-brained schemes designed to drive her crazy, it was certainly working. She was staring at the phone, contemplating calling him back just to (hoarsely) yell at him, when there was a soft knock on the door.

Her gaze flickered to it, and in an instant, she caught on. Her mood went from murderous to just slightly irritated in seconds. Having a quick temper did that to you. Barely repressing a smile, she called out sarcastically.

"Who is it?" Her scratchy voice somewhat ruined the effect.

"The tooth fairy," Came Jane's equally sarcastic reply through the door. Then a softer, non-sarcastic voice. "I come bearing the clichéd, but life-saving, chicken soup and a thriller DVD. That is your preferred genre, right?"

It suddenly struck Teresa how sweet the gesture was, and she was momentarily touched, throat blocked with emotion. She pulled herself together, clearing her throat painfully.

"It's open," She called to him, voice crackly. The door opened, and the blonde head of her consultant peeked in. Teresa was instantly aware of the fact that she was a mess, as was her flat.

She was, of course, wearing her favorite 'Lisbon' football jersey, wrapped tightly in her quilt and various blankets. Her slightly greasy hair was piled on top of her head in a bun, and her face was flushed and sweaty due to her fever. There were mounds of tissues all around her, and a (thankfully empty) bowl, in case she didn't make it to the bathroom when the dreaded nausea struck.

But Jane didn't seem to notice. He closed the door behind him, smiling brightly at her.

"Oh, Lisbon. You do look sick." He gazed at her for a moment, brow crinkled. "Well, don't worry. I'm here to take care of you, boss." He said cheerfully. Teresa rolled her eyes at him, not able to resist a sarcastic retort.

"Thanks, Jane. I feel-" She paused to cough, ruining the effect of the sarcasm slightly. "-better already." She started to cough again uncontrollably. When she finally re-surfaced, Jane was pouring a container of chicken soup into a bowl. She watched him curiously.

"So, tell me. Did you make that yourself, or did you buy one of those ready-to-heat cans?" She asked, voice even croakier after the coughing fit. Jane stopped what he was doing, looking up at her.

"I made it, of course. I must say, your lack of belief in my cooking skills is a little insulting." The look on his face was slightly hurt, but Teresa wasn't buying it. She let it go, though, because the smell wafting toward her made her stomach grumble, canned or not.

Jane set up the thriller DVD (which, admittedly, was Teresa's favorite kind of movie, but she didn't know how he knew that), handed her a large bowl of soup, and settled himself at her feet as though he did that every day. She opened her mouth to protest, but didn't know how to start. She felt slightly self-concious, although she didn't know why. So she just settled in, trying to ignore the hand that was lightly resting on her foot.

The movie Jane had picked out was a gory, very predictable cop movie. They sat through it, Teresa laying with her head propped up on the arm of the couch with Jane leaning cozily against her legs. She hungrily gulped down the soup, which she had to admit tasted home-made. And really good.

Jane's warm weight on Teresa's legs was strangely comforting, and she found herself gradually relaxing. She laughed when Jane jumped at the scary parts, and elbowed him when he made remarks about the characters being 'unrealistic' and 'transparent', even though she secretly agreed. Her flu symptoms even seemed to dull slightly.

As the movie ended, Teresa yawned, stretching like a cat. She felt slightly disappointed as Jane stood, and cold air rushed in to replace his warm weight. Was he leaving already?

Then she mentally shook herself, vaguely horrified. It was Patrick Jane, the most irritating man on earth, she was thinking about here! _Pull yourself together, Teresa,_ She told herself sternly, brushing her thoughts off as a strange side effect of her fever.

Out of nowhere, Teresa felt a rush of nausea hit her with the force of a train.

"Oh, god," She blurted loudly, putting a hand over her mouth. Jane eyed her in alarm, reaching out a hand. But she was already shoving the blankets aside.

Stumbling slightly as her foot caught on the quilt, she rushed to the bathroom on unsteady feet. She reached the toilet bowl just in time. With an almighty retch, she emptied the entire contents of her stomach with such force, she swore it almost turned her inside out. In an instant, warm hands were on her back, rubbing soothing circles. She vaguely acknowledged the fact Jane was seeing her in such a state, but gave in when a retch racked her entire body again.

Teresa didn't know how long she knelt there, clutching at the toilet bowl, face flushed and sweating with fever, knees numb. Those gentle hands had been on her back the entire time, and murmured words of comfort had been at her ear. But when she finally sat back, shaking, she found she couldn't stand. Wobbling on her knees, she unsteadily toppled, landing hard on her shoulder. Teresa whimpered, curling into the fetal position with her hot forehead pressed to the cool tile floor.

But then Jane had scooped her up as though she weighed nothing. He gently cradled her in his arms, and she quickly gasped in a breath. But then he was carrying her down the hallway, and she couldn't be bothered fighting him. She dimly watched the wallpaper pass, and she could feel the steady pounding of his heart against her collarbone. It was a perfect sound, she thought, the sound of his heartbeat. An unwavering _thump thump thump.._. Teresa felt her eyelids flicker slightly with exhaustion.

Like a small child, she was tucked into her bed. Jane turned out the light, and in the pitch-darkness, she felt the other side of her bed depress. She turned her head in slight shock. Was she so feverish she was hallucinating? He seemed unconcerned as he lay down on her bed. He stretched out, as far away as possible from her, on top of the covers. His eyes caught hers, and he smiled slightly.

"Don't worry, I'll stay far on this side. I just need to see you are okay." Teresa's eyelids flickered again, but she was too on edge to sleep. _Patrick Jane_ was in her _bed_, for Christ's sake! She felt vaguely uneasy.

Jane seemed to feel her tense up, because he turned to her, smiling comfortingly in the darkness. He hesitantly reached out a hand to gently stroke her hair back. She felt herself unwillingly close her eyes at the comforting touch.

"Shh. Sleep. Count from one hundred to zero with me, Lisbon." His voice was like a lullaby... And she was so...tired... "Relax... One hundred, ninety..."

She was asleep before he even started counting.

**-BREAK-**

In the middle of the night, Patrick woke with a start. He looked down and was shocked to see he had shifted in his sleep. And he wasn't the only one.

Lisbon had shoved all the blankets off the bed in her sleep, and they had both rolled into the middle of the bed. She had her arm slung around his waist, and her cheek was resting on his chest, head nestled into his neck. One of her lean legs was strewn carelessly across one of his, and she was breathing slowly. Her chest was pressed against his side, and he could feel the steady thump of her resting heartbeat.

Looking down at her face, illuminated in the moonlight, Patrick lay frozen. The last time a woman had slept on his chest like this, it had been his wife. His precious Angela. Patrick waited for the familiar mixture of pain, revenge and loss to hit him at the thought of her. But somehow, this time it felt like an echo of the pain he normally felt. He wondered how this could be. Red John was still alive, and still out there. Why didn't he feel the bitter need for revenge, the one thing that had stuck in his mind for the past three years? The thirst for revenge and the loss of his family were still there- but they weren't as heartbreakingly strong.

Patrick looked down at Lisbon again in amazement. How could this tiny, ferocious woman heal all that pain, just by being here with him?

Lisbon's sharp cheekbones were un-flushed, and her forehead was no longer sweaty. He guessed the flu was finally fading. As much as he knew he should gently shift her back to the other side of the bed, he couldn't. She looked so comfortable, so peaceful, when she was asleep. A completely different person to the hard-ass, sarcastic woman he now knew so well. And just seeing her sleep seemed to heal his heart- if only for a while.

But then she shifted slightly, moving her head closer to his face. Her lips opened slightly, and she spoke one word in her sleep, a word that made his world change.

"Patrick," She mumbled, a small smile curving her features.

Patrick closed his eyes. He didn't know why, but Teresa Lisbon had been thrown into his path. This woman who was so different to Angela. She was petite, muscled, while Angela had been soft and rounded. Angela's eyes had been warm, like liquid chocolate, while hers were a clear, piercing emerald. Angela had possessed a comforting, soft energy. Hers was sharp, tough, almost abrasive, while still very caring. Patrick had rarely fought with Angela, whereas with her... he was lucky to not be punched sometimes. And yet... How was it that he had fallen in love with this woman?

_And I am,_ Patrick realised with a jolt. _I'm in love with Teresa Lisbon._

Opening his eyes, Patrick stared at Lisbon, asleep on his chest. She looked so innocent, almost angelic. Free from the cares of the world that she had to deal with everyday at the CBI.

Carefully, so he didn't jostle her, he leaned forward. As lightly and gently as possible, he kissed her on the forehead.

Patrick glanced toward the window, noticing the light gathering. It was a new day. And he felt like a new man.

**Ta-da! :) I really hope you like this. I know it has a similar tone to my other story, you know, 'Jane-to-Lisbon's-rescue' and all that. But maybe that's just how my imagination is hardwired. Haha. **

**I actually really enjoyed writing this one, and I got more out of it than I expected to. I kinda got carried away, but that's not a bad thing, right? Please review! **

**- Ashlee-Rose :)**


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